


Of Freckled Constellations and Words Written in Dust

by killhimwithyourawesome



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Eating Disorders, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 00:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killhimwithyourawesome/pseuds/killhimwithyourawesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes bad days are the best time to remember the reasons you have each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Freckled Constellations and Words Written in Dust

Grantaire found his sunrise muse on the bathroom floor of their flat, crying into his sweater sleeves as he curled himself into a tight ball. It wasn’t abnormal, per-say, for Jehan to be in tears.

This, however, felt like one of those abnormal times.

The artist slowly set his bag down, approaching the poet just as slowly. “Jehan?”

The younger man’s head shot up, and he proceeded to sob harder, reaching out for Grantaire who instantly and willingly scooped him into his arms and held him tightly.

“Sweet muse, what is wrong?”

“I fucked up,” was the small response, so fragile. “I truly fucked up.” 

~

This cycle of pickups and drop offs had begun 2 years previous when Grantaire had told Jehan he looked like he belonged in a Rococo painting. Jehan had denied it fervently on the grounds of “Bourgeoisie Symbolism” and Grantaire knew he would simply love this boy.

They bonded over rich coffee and history texts, over romance and justice. They bonded over the arts and they bonded over the sciences. Jehan wrote poetry up Grantaire’s arms and Grantaire painted constellations in Jehan’s freckles. There are words about dust crawling across Grantaire’s spine, and Jehan’s freckles have been turned into mythological tales on his right shoulder, both forever inked into their skin and minds. Grantaire learned how to braid flowers into sunrise colored hair and Jehan knows the different ways to prepare canvas. They dance the tango to whatever the radio will play at three in the morning until they are left breathless and craving a cigarette that they take together on patios or rooftops. 

They counted the stars and Jehan listened as Grantaire recited every myth he’s ever learned straight from memory –down to the most miniscule detail – of heroes and queens and monsters and suddenly Jehan understood those patterns etched into his skin. He heard stories of a child whose parents wanted too much of him, of a boy who was a man far before his time, who took up drinking because it was easier to disappoint then it was to breath clean air and think clear thoughts, and suddenly the reason the stars meant so much to Grantaire was just as obvious as the scars that lined his wrists, there for all to see if only they looked close enough.

And Grantaire heard words weaved together, about the sunrise that brought new days and the sunset that ended the ones too hard to bare, and about dust. He heard a lot about dust, about how gravel turned to dust beneath feet, about how dirt paths sprayed dust when the wind got too strong and about how a boy, so small and fragile sometimes wished he would turn into dust. And the words that looped around his ribs in the beautiful handwriting of his best friend made him want to cry, and he had them permanently added to his body as a promise to help carry his best friend through the hard times, to help him eat when it got to hard and praise his progress and carry him when he fell. 

~

Grantaire had gone into full coddling mode. 

Jehan had been placed their bed – a nest, more like it, thanks to Grantaire’s love of blankets and pillows to an end that made having a mattress almost unnecessary – bundled up in his favorite blankets. Tea was brewing -the only thing Jehan could digest after an episode - and Grantaire was resisting the urge to give into the shaking of his hands. Tea made and poured into Jehan’s favorite cup - the disaster from Grantaire’s ceramics class that Jehan insisted on keeping – and Grantaire was slipping himself into the nest to wrap himself around the shaking poet.

“How are you feeling?” He murmured softly, holding him close as Jehan drank from his cup. 

“’m sorry…” Jehan whined softly, burring himself into Grantaire. “’m sorry…”

“No more of that, you have nothing to apologize to me for.” Grantaire took the half empty cup from Jehan’s shaking fingers, placing it safely outside the nest. “Talk to me.”

And Jehan did talk, and he talked in prose and he talked in speeches. He rambled and he burst into tears until Grantaire silenced him with a kiss, waiting for the tears to slow once more and the boy to curl into him.

And this, Grantaire realized as he pulled a blanket over them – a ragged old thing with books that Jehan found at a yard sale – and fixed the pillows at their heads – dyed from the many paint fights that ensued over the year of officially living together, – turned off the lamp – a lava lamp, a joke from Courfeyrac that Jehan had placed next to their bed with all the seriousness of Enjolras in the midst of a speech – all of this was what they were made of.

They had their problems, yes. But they were not in this to fix one another, they were in this to hold one another while they were on this crazy journey. And so Grantaire said this. He talked about the lamp, the pillows, and the blankets. He talked about the crazy-ass mug outside their nest, the taste of the cigarettes Jehan buys compared to the ones Grantaire buys. He talked about the way Jehan mixes Vodka with Soda in a way that Grantaire was sure made him a wizard, and how he loved the way Jehan forced him to drink water between each drink. He talked about how the freckles on Jehan’s skin formed constellations for the millionth time since they met, about how his hair was the color of the sunrise and how Jehan was his one true muse.

He talked about the taste of Jehan’s kisses, how they taste like Vanilla and honey and the brand of cigarettes he buys. He talked about how Jehan’s hair was softer than a kitten’s and his skin silkier than Courfeyrac’s shirts. 

“My favorite thing though, my favorite thing in the entire world,” he murmured right into Jehan’s ear, whose face was pressed into his neck in an attempt to hide his blush and his smile. “My favorite thing is the way you feel, so close to me, so I can feel your heart beat and your chest rise and fall as you breathe and know that you, my sunrise muse, are mine.”

Jehan smiled up at him. “We’ll be okay…?”

“Yeah, we’ll be okay.”


End file.
